July 30- written on the plane

The following rant was written on the plane for my blog. I forgot I had written it, until I went to go look at the essays I had started in transit. It turns out I did more ranting than actual writing of essays. Good for the blog, bad for my future(?)! It's kind of long, and a bit personal... but hey, blogs are personal.

Chuletta Ventures Day 1

Let my adventures begin: 6 ½ months away from Vancouver. I packed my bags yesterday, half the contents are readily disposable- in fact, and it seems at least a quarter of the contents are good examples of planned obsolescence. For example, the ridiculous wedge shoes I am bringing to wear at Silka and Matt’s wedding. The dress is also an item to be forgotten along the way.

I had dinner with Maegan last night. She came over with Thai food and a bottle of wine; an elixir to soothe my nerves. Then she assisted me in making the house semi-presentable for my mother’s return [today]. [01100111] On the drive to the airport I was excited and sleepy, dreamy and sad.

I am going to meet up with Mego in Jordan, Salman in Egypt, Tristan and my parents in Greece. How exciting!

I am now on the plane to Toronto. It seems there are a thousand crying children on this plane. I have never been so thankful for a set of earplugs. I feel for the mother and her nanny; two sets of twins to care for. I do not envy them, as I know they must feel worse than the annoyance felt by myself and the other passengers on this plane. Albeit, the annoyance is fairly intense to an obvious few.

I am also trying to write my med school essays, but not so much luck there. It seems I can’t think of much which would qualify me to be a doctor. When I think about growing up, I think about how nurturing my mother was, and my sister and dad, and hell, my brothers too. But I always feel like I was really more the calm one, I didn’t rush to help in an emergency. I never knew what to do, I never took charge. I was always just waiting for directions… like, maybe I’d make a great nurse. Ugh.

And then I think about doctors, and I try to locate one who I like. All I can think of is Dr. B, who recommended I get a vaccine for traveler’s diarrhea. Absolutely ridiculous! She seems to scream out: I AM PAID BY THE PHARMACEUTICAL INDUSTRY feed me, I’m starving. But she’s not starving. She’s happy and plump and thriving. Pathetic. Depressing. Discouraging. Outrageous. Unappealing. Sorry, who wants to be a doctor? All I can think about are my criticisms of the system. But there must be some good in there somewhere. Right?

Holy crap, these screaming kids are an earful. While we were still taxiing and the kids were wailing at unearthly levels, the man next to me turned and said, “it’s going to be a long flight.” To which I replied “my sentiments, exactly. Thank god for earplugs.” Which I then proceeded to find- thank god indeed.

Ah, Michael Jackson- if you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change.

I refuse to watch TV on this flight.

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I should really be brainstorming about what to write for my med school essays.

Ok, so med school. As a kid I was careful. I liked bugs. I liked to play with them; I liked to experiment with them. I wanted to manipulate nature into producing more of the foods I loved and less of the ones I didn’t care for. That meant more worms for the strawberries and less for the zucchinis. I respected spiders and bees, snails and slugs. I was not a sickly child, and I never really hurt myself. I was a little wimpy and did not take risks. I felt sure my cat could understand me. I would ask my dolls not to talk to me at night, just in case they could talk and wanted to show me. I earnestly reasoned with them that it would really just cause more fear than good. If they could talk; I wanted them to keep it to themselves.

I believed in the power of self-healing and would meditate on it from an early age. I didn’t know what I was doing though. Once, when I was about 8 or so I got a planter’s wart, probably from the public swimming pool. Mum took me to the doctor’s to have it burned off, but although it hurt like crazy, the wart did not go away. So every night I focused my energy to the base of my skull, where my spinal cord meets my brain and then, when I felt I had channeled all the energy I could muster, I would conscientiously send it through my body to my foot. I would channel my energy to go and get rid of that wart and I would wash it carefully every day, twice a day, in secret. I was afraid if my mum knew I still had it she would take me back to the doctor, and I was sure I could “wish” it away. It was gone in less than 2 weeks.

When I was 14, I got my first eczema outbreak. My hands developed blister over blister on the palms of my hands. My swollen useless hands immobilized me. I couldn’t grip anything, not even a hairbrush, not even a toothbrush. My mother would do everything for me, even eating was a chore.

When my sister got pregnant, she said I could be present for the birth. I was so honoured, but also scared. I was scared of what I would see. To prepare for my sister’s labour, I took a doula training course. The course made me feel infinitely more comfortable with the birth process, however; it also made me fear the medical association. Birth has become highly regulated, to the point of lunacy. There are so many scenarios and flow charts outlining how a birth should go, that it seems almost impossible for a woman to undergo a natural birth without any serious interventions. Not many people actually follow the “average” path. In fact, very few do. But regardless of your thoughts as to how a birth should go, or how organic you wish it to be, as a layman in the hospital ward, you are absolutely powerless. Once my sister was admitted into the hospital ward it was no longer about her, but about the baby. She was simply the vessel. What kind of a sick system is this, where we dehumanize the very person who brings life?! Such a sacred act is marred in the name of emergency. The women’s ward has become completely misguided with so many rules and people in the industry aware that if they don’t follow their flowcharts and schematic diagrams, their ass will be on the line. Well, this is not a system I wish to be a part of, when one can no longer trust or use their intuition. Worse, where one must actively ignore their intuition and do clearly horrific things all for the sake of maintaining their license. I can’t imagine partaking in this system. I have no desire to imprison those who seek safety. But could I change the system? Could I rally against it and succeed? Unlikely, just look at Gloria. Living outside any regulations, and living on the edge, with no security and a constant fight. But her life is worth it, and I admire her struggle and what she achieves.